


In A Crowd of Thousands ( I Knew I'd Find You Again )

by peachimmi



Series: Fairytales of Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fluff and Angst, Hate to Love, Inspired by Anastasia (1997), Mental Illness, Murder, PTSD, Rebellion, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Unrequited Love, Violence, main love interest cullen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachimmi/pseuds/peachimmi
Summary: Fifteen years have passed since the palace of the Lavellan clan was overrun by elven rebels, putting an end to the lives of the clan members and royal family inside. Now, as rumors of a living Lavellan Princess begin to fly, the Grand Duchess Deshanna offers a reward to anyone who can bring forth the missing princess, Ellena Lavellan.Cullen Rutherford is just a man trying to get by when his partner in crime hears the rumors and sets them off on a chase to find the perfect actress to play the part. When they run into an orphaned elven woman, Niahm, they are sure they've found their match and start off on their journey to bring the "lost" princess to Orlais and return her to her family.What Cullen doesn't count on is a pretty girl who makes his heart sing.Based on the Broadway show and movie ofAnastasia.





	In A Crowd of Thousands ( I Knew I'd Find You Again )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **trigger warning** : death, violence, guns, murder, ptsd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER SONG :**   
>  [ IN MY DREAMS](https://youtu.be/KD8ULAZi6IA?list=PLuyLL7y1maAt1-DDzf7AMxohOtN1JdBeU)
> 
> i do not own bioware, dragon age, or anastasia, nor the characters.

_Ellana wakes to the palace burning._

 

_The flames chase the walls and climb the building’s beams. they eat, burning away the structure overhead. It starts this way, the night silent, then not. now there are only screams as the palace residents scramble from their beds and fight to escape._

 

_They do not though. Escape is not an option here, and instead they meet a bitter end — brought by the bite of a bullet or the lick of the flame. The bodies pile, servants and handmaidens alike. Men and women and children, all brought to an end by the shaking hands of angry men and their guns, their torches raised. The rebels descend upon the grounds with their boots tearing through the snow. Their pistol, hot from recent use, balanced against their shoulders as they march. They are without mercy, faces twisted and unkind. And the night spits embers and ash into the sky behind them, almost like a painting._

 

_They enter the palace from all angles, bursting through the door with a giving crack and open firing at all within sight. More blood, it decorates the once white marbled floors and the towering velvet curtains. Everything is red, the flame and the blood and the screams._

 

_Ellana can hear them below, in the ballroom, the popping of a gun and the silence that follows after. She is small, barely a child, with hands that cover her ears at each echoing shot as she rises from her bed, disorientated. Her fingers reach for it— the musical box that sits in the drawer on her bedside. A small hum on her lips as she pulls it into her hands, cupping it fondly. There is fear, fear and fire. But that moment brings silence and fond memories of a grandmother who awaits her. Awaits for her in Orlais._

 

_Her moment is cut short, and her father barges in shortly after and, without a word, scoops her into his arms. With a free hand he takes the music box from her, silent and still as he flings it across the room and hurries her through her doorway. She protests, but he silences her, hand moving to cover her mouth. He carries her into his study, locks the door behind him and hides her behind the towering structure of his desk. There she meets five others, her siblings who vary in age and stature but all hold the tell tale Lavellan green eyes. Her mother stands behind them, face stoic and mouth set. And they wait, crouched under her father’s desk, doomed to either flames or guns and their men._

 

_And they do not wait long — the door breaks open as the rest. It gives way and the rebels pool in. they hold their fire, guns pointed at the desk, awaiting their command. Behind them appears their general, a tall man with their signature navy uniform, crisp and clean, and a pistol weighing at his hip. He pushes past, hand resting on the holster of his gun._

 

_“Whether you surrender or not, you will die tonight Lavellans.” he speaks, inching closer to their desk. Behind the desk Ellana trembles, fingers pulling on her mother’s hem once more, the other hand seeking the comfort of one of her brothers, Alexai._

 

_There is a sad, but twisting, smile against his mouth, “there is no escape.”_

 

_He waves off the men, shoos them and one by one they file away from the room, leaving him alone with the family before him._

 

_“I am sorry.”_

 

_They do not run. They do not scream. And it is quick as could be, the ringing of the gunshots echoing in the general’s ears even years after._

 

_There are six shots, for six bodies._

 

_And so the Lavellan clan’s rule ends between gunshots and the faint sound of the music box playing behind Ellana’s door._

 

* * *

 

 

The snow piles around Niamh’s feet, light like feathers as it pools the city. It lights the roads and the towering lamp posts, the buildings and their ledges, the walkways and the plants that grow between the bits of pavement— it covers all in a shroud of white. For a minute it hurts, Niamh’s eyes not adapted to the stark contrast across the usually very grey Haven. But she blinks and lets her eyes adjust, and then she continues on her way, hands reaching to shift the bag over her shoulder.

 

Her boots crunch against the fresh snow, the ice staining her skirts and the cold air nipping at the peaks of her nose and cheeks. It brings a sense of familiarity — each winter the same, white coated and decorated streets for the upcoming holidays. And it awakens her, her body humming with energy from the fresh winter air. She feels alive here against the burn of the winter air. It’s pleasant and not as cruel, the seasons light snow embellishing and sweet — rather the twisted winter winds and rain that usually ravage the streets. It’s pleasant and it brings a small smile to the lips of the young girl, despite the early hour.

 

Niamh’s walk to work is a short one, but today she takes her time. Her mind churns on a small dream she’s had, memory foggy. She, only remembers pieces of it — a fire, a gunshot, the silk of a woman’s skirts. and the sinking in her chest as she wakes to find her memories gone, like always. It had been fifteen years since she was found that night, a small girl wandering the streets of Haven with no recollection of who she was and where she had come from. She was here now, the orphanage taking her in until her ripening at eighteen, and after setting her up with work in a seamstress office. It was a simple life, poorish and boring and perfectly in place. But it is one Niamh finds contentment in. Not happiness, but something to settle upon despite her longing for memories, the warmth of a family. And Orlais— the city filled with lights and towers and all that glistens.

 

She is close to the building, the street giving way to an intersection, where automobiles whiz by — spewing their fumes as their riders enjoy themselves about. A line of buildings, tall in stature, stand around the square, decorated with red brick. It isn’t pristine, garbage littering the street and dust and dirt lining the walk ways, staining them. But it’s home, she reminds herself. It is home.

 

— The sound of a truck, a backfire that rips through the morning air, pulls her from her thoughts of dreams and homes. Rather, it tears her away. The panic sets in instantaneously. A chill sweeps under her skin, screaming like ice, and Niamh can all but drop to the floor. Her heart hammers, veins constricting and throat closing, suffocating her and drowning her. Her head spins, softly tilting and distorting the world around her. She finds herself reaching, hands finding the snow and gripping at it in chunks. Anything to ground her, level her. Leave the world still once more.  She finds herself flopping against the snow, shriek in her throat as she curls within herself. She wants to run, wants to go. _She needs to leave and hide and the flames are chasing her and the men and their guns, and why is she so cold_ —

 

“Miss? are you alright?” a man finds her, and he’s beside her quickly, hands soft as he takes hold of her own, trembling and quivering. He’s not the first and only to notice her, others staring as they pass by. Some come to a stop, outside of her range and only close enough to watch with concern eyes. But never concerned enough to comfort.   
  
 “Come now, rest easy.” he’s lifting her up, guiding her to a stand, she shakes, knees knocking and legs unsteady, but she stands. Her breathing is shallow still, a weight against her own chest. But the burning of the ice against her bones ceases and she is no longer on the floor at least— her coat wet from the touch of snow. 

“Thank you, sir,” she finds herself unable to move freely — she is mechanic. Like the clockwork of a car. Trapped in the same routine. Smile, bow a head, and leave. She does as such, moving away from him and wearily turning to go. She teeters and the man catches her once more, holding her in place. 

 

“Are you sure you’re alright miss?” he asks, concern fetching his features.

 

He’s a handsome enough man, older and refined. His head is shaven, bald nearly, and his chin is poised, sharp. His ears, like her’s, were pointed. An elf? She could appreciate that. And his eyes — a swimming grey blue, were like the sky against a stormy day. He wore a crisp, deeply navy, uniform, one alarmingly like the rebel men who roamed the streets, taking care to flaunt their guns and their power in the face of the people. Niamh was no stranger to men like this, men who bullied her should she misstep. Men who saw a pretty face and took it upon themselves to slide to her, voices taunting. But, he seemed kind, and Niamh was thankful for that, that it had been someone who shared sincerity rather than cruelty. But his eyes said more than what she wanted to hear, and she found herself pulling away from his expectant stare, unable to explain to him that she lacks the memories to account for _why_ loud noises send her reeling. 

 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to be,” she licks her lips, “as it seems I will be late for work if I keep up this pace.”

 

He furrows his brows at her, “but—”

 

“I’m sorry but these jobs aren’t easy to come by, sir," she moves, stepping from his grip and away once more. This time the world tilts, but does not teeter to and fro, her balance restored, “but thank you—  for your kindness.”

 

“Solas,” he calls, as she makes her leave, “my name is Solas.”

 

And then she is gone, moving quickly, though unsteadily, down the walkways.

 

* * *

 

By the time she arrives to the shop her legs have regained their strength and the panic no longer sets in the furrow of her brow or the pitter of her heart. She feels a bit better, though her hands still quiver through a rush of adrenaline.

 

The door chimes, a small bell setting off as she walks in. The owner, a short dwarven women, looks up as she walks in. She’s a sweet woman, with a face to reflect it. All around cheeks and light eyes, a small resting against the corner of her mouth even in her moments alone. Her hair is a messy, piled into what was attempted as a braid but failed, on the top of her head. Her clothes, like Niamh’s, are worn — dirty and littered with stitches meant for mending the small holes that have appeared.

 

Dagna was someone Niamh enjoyed being around simply because the air was never silent with her. Instead, she chattered about, tinkering with the machines and fabrics and rushing across the floor of the store. She was beaming, like a sunflower reaching for light. Bright and beautiful.

 

“Good morning, Niamh, dear!” she grins, all teeth, as she shoves a needle through a roll of fabric,  “how has your morning been—”

 

Dagna pulls her eyes from the fabric and sets them on Niamh, her words dying at the sight of her, “why you’re white as a ghost.”

 

Niamh shrugs, moving to take off her coat and tapping her shoes against the welcome mat in effort to remove the snow, “it’s just the cold,” she dismisses.

 

The dwarven woman gives her an odd look, but she ( much to Niamh’s relief ) drops the matter. “I put some dresses to the side for you to hem, if you don’t mind. The measurements are on the parchment beside them.”

 

Niamh nods and quietly sets her bag aside, moving her normal work area — a messy desk littered with dresses and tulle, strips of fabric and pieces of thread thrown about. A sewing machine, a dark piece of metal with a crank to the side, sits in the midst of it all. She sets her bag on the floor and takes a seat, fingers reaching for the piece of paper with scribbled measurements on it.

 

She sets off to work.

 

The day passes slowly, with Dagna chattering about the gossip that falls under the breath of haven’s people. Niamh never needed to know how the knight commander beds and how well it goes— but Dagna is never short of details.

 

“They say that the lost princess is still alive,” she says over the hum of the machine before her. “That she escaped the Lavellan massacre.”

 

Something about it strikes an odd chord within Niamh. It almost irritates her—no the princess is dead. These are just wives tales that mean nothing. They mean nothing as her dreams mean nothing— dreams with flashes of skirts and silk and glistening chandeliers. It all means nothing in the end. But she doesn’t tell her friend that. Tnstead she focuses on a change of subject — away from Ellana Lavellan and her death.

 

“Dagna, do you know anything about Orlais?”

 

The hum of Dagna’s machine stops.

 

“A little, but what about Orlais sparks your curiosity?” her voice is tight, lips drawn as her eyes fine Niamh’s. It makes the girl draw her eyes away from her, guilt twisting.

 

Orlais has called to niamh for as long as she can recall. She was never sure why. What brought forth this violent need to meet in the vast city? And why did a part of her hope, relentlessly so, that she would find a family there — waiting with open arms.

 

“Just curious,” she says, regretting her asking.

 

Dagna’s steps are light as she moves to where Niamh works. she meets the front of her desk, hand moving to steady herself against it. She waits, eyes ever patient and expectant. Niamh makes the mistake of meeting her eyes and her stone heart crumbles.

 

“is this about your family?”

 

Dagna knows all—Niamh finding it hard to keep things locked away from her. Part of it is a trust. Something sincere in Dagna that makes it easy to spill all you know forth. Ehe other half is guilt. Everyday Niamh comes home here, to a warm place to work and a steady paycheck. She finds a friend and a colleague. Dagna has never betrayed her trust or kindness. In fact, Dagna has always given all she could for Niamh. and so Niamh repays it with honesty.

 

“yes,” She sighs, hands finally stilling with her own work. “it seems it is.”

 

Dagna is quiet for a minute, teeth biting at the lower skin of her lip. She shifts from foot to foot. “Niamh,” she pauses, drawing a breath through her teeth. “you should find them.”

 

Niamh whips her head around to gawk at her, heart seizing. “i couldn’t—”

Dagna puts her hand up at her, cutting her words short. “you should.”

 

There’s a moment of silence between the two, Niamh’s chest heavy with consideration. would it be possible? To find the missing piece of her life? She thinks of the endless days, stuck in a hum from her memories. The nights spent wishing on every star against the sky just so she could know — did they miss her? were they even alive? did her mother bake and burn the cookies and her father smoke from pipes in the backroom of their home? She imagined the scene so clearly sometimes, she swore it was real. Tt made her rib cage swell with longing, fingers reaching out and daring to touch the stars of her dreams—

 

“I can’t,” she sighs, hand running through the loose pieces of her hair. "I don’t even have the papers and they’re impossible to get now with all of the rebellion now.”

 

Dagna breaks out into a coy smile. it makes Niamh nervous.

 

“I could help you with that.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any feedback is appreciated! this is my first posting here and im a bit nervous ahhhHHHHHHH


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